The Tale of the Four Founders- A STITCH IN TIME
by NimrodelHPfandom
Summary: Crossover between the founders (in some sort of afterlife) and Outlander. On the Samhain when the veils of time are thinnest, Godric and Salazar are sent to today to experience modern life. However, a mishap occurs, and Godric lands in 2009 America, while Salazar winds up in post-WWII Scotland. Mostly comedy and some bittersweet stuff. Parings: Godric/Rowena, Salazar/Helga.


—A TALE OF FOUR FOUNDERS—

A STITCH

IN

TIME

**AN: **So I wrote this quite recently. This is an Outlander/Four Founders (after they died) crossover that popped into my head. I hope y'all like it :)

-PART ONE-

_Through the Stones_

IF ANYONE could ever travel in time, it is certain that they would have done so immediately. Certainly for Godric Gryffindor this would be entirely the case.

It was therefore quite naturally that one such announcement caused quite some discussion.

"There is," Godric Gryffindor began one day at supper to the rest of his friends, as they were all sat around the table, "A way of descending into the mortal world. And a way of dwelling there for a time without anyone having to know you too well."

"You've taken leave of your senses," Helga snorted.

"No, no. Rowena believes she's found a way to access the mortal world," Said Godric as Rowena looked up at the mention of this. "Naturally I would try a way of getting down there, knowing me. But I would like it if one of you came with me."

"—Well, that's obvious who it is."

"—He's always with you."

"—Always walking with him."

"I will _not,"_ said Salazar, interrupting as he drank from a mug. "And I wish you luck if you mean to force me. I will not be going with you under any conditions and I have no interest in going whatsoever."

"I don't believe so," Said Godric. "And look at what you're drinking: Glenfiddich whisky, two-thousand-and-one. I'm sure you'd like to see the river Fiddich again, you know, running calmly into the Spey as the trout swim past."

"I said no."

"No?" Godric looked surprised.

"You heard what I said."

The matter had been left to rest until only a short while later. The end of suppertime was followed as usual by music, in which Salazar fiddled along with Godric, who had made a guitar for himself. He liked carrying it around with him, and in his booming voice, Godric would sing _Loch Lomond _as he played it.

"_Oh you'll tak the high road_

_And I'll tak the low,_

_And I'll be in Scotland afore ye,_

_But me and my true love will ne'er meet again,_

_By the bonnie bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond."_

Later they walked by the shore together and discussed with one another mundane matters that they no longer needed to care about. That was when the subject returned to that which had been discussed earlier in the evening:

"Once again, I will say, there could be a way of descending into the mortal world," Rowena said. "It would be a good idea Salazar. Honestly."

"Not this again," he muttered, and Helga said soothingly: "No need to get yourself so worked up, Salazar dear," to which he said something in Gaelic under his breath. Helga gave him a reprimanding look, but then turning to Rowena she asked: "But then do tell me honestly, why him of all people?"

"Well, because he is sensible. He wouldn't do something stupid like Godric might do."

"I'm not stupid," Godric protested.

"Well, if you aren't trying to be, at least. I thought you might travel with him if you are on your best behavior. There won't be too much issue sending you back."

Salazar glared. "And how exactly do you presume that a man the likes of me could be sent back in time?"

"Or sent ahead." Rowena said slyly. "There are places in the world where the border between life and death is thin, and the dead can travel through. Today is the day of a time that is thousands of years old and has been known to both us and the people of the world today as we see it. You know which one."

"Samhain," Salazar echoed, and Godric said: "Halloween."

"Don't call it 'Halloween'," Said Salazar.

"I'll call it what I like, thanks."

"Enough," Rowena snapped. "But you know what I'm going to say: on this day I can send you through to the living world through a portal that can be used to travel through time and space."

The idea intrigued Salazar, but he had never taken it seriously until now. He leaned forward in his chair and laid a fist onto the table. "Where exactly is this?" He asked.

"The stone circle I speak of is known as Craigh na Dun, built before even we were around, now that I think of it. It's alike to Stonehenge, but a little less known to the locals or anyone planning to visit any stone circles for that matter."

"Do you know where?" Helga said.

"Scotland, in the Highlands, not far from Inverness." The look in Rowena's eyes grew distant as soon as she had said the word 'Scotland'. "…It has changed since our time and those days are long past now, but I think in its current situation, the two of you can manage."

"In a place with no swords," Godric started.

"Don't worry about that. I'll know you won't be bashing each other's heads in; swords were done away with long ago, you know. I can send you tonight and bring you both back when you wish."

"Along the low road I'll go, eh?"

"You will actually," Rowena said with a small smile. "Along the low road to the Highlands. And then Salazar will meet you on the high, if he arrives before you."

"Then why don't you come along?"

"I'd love to come, Godric, but Scotland isn't what it once was."

It wasn't what it had been for all of them. The grey lochs, the mist-covered trees nestled between the glens and corries, the purple sprigs of heather and wild mountain thyme… they were no longer as vast as they had known it to be. But then suddenly Rowena got up and said faintly, "I'll meet you all on the shore in a bit if you're coming. If you're ready then do come down." And she picked up her skirts and hurried away, though Godric saw her pained face. How much she missed her homeland, he would not know.

They met one another on the shore, where the sands and the water met. Both Salazar and Godric were clad in travelling cloaks over their robes that flapped in the breeze around them. Helga stood by and watched as Rowena dug a small ditch of sand.

"And now we wait." She said, as the seawater rushed in to fill the ditch. The silver surface shimmered with a ripple that came from nowhere, and suddenly there was a reflection of dewy grass within it.

"I've seen that the Druids have worked their magic." Rowena explained, taking out her wand from her sleeve. "You two only need to get there by portkey, with the magic of it combined by the Druid's ones. Helga and I can give you help. But it will be limited."

"Riiiight," Said Godric.

"You only need to get back to the standing stones if you want to return here. Remember, the living can see you. You want to make yourself as modern as possible if you want to have more fun than trouble. Am I clear?"

"As clear as I hope." Salazar said, doubtfully. "Are you sure this will work?"

"Yes… _Portus." _Rowena tapped the surface of the puddle with her wand, and the water rippled again. "There. Now there ought to be a portal to the living world. You need to get in together, I you want to get in at more or less the right time. Too late and you'll be spread a long way apart. Decades, or even centuries. Are you ready?"

There was a short silence.

"Are you ready?" Rowena repeated.

"Ready." Godric said.

"Ready." Salazar repeated.

"Ready or not." Helga said.

"On the count of three then. And remember you must descend at the same time. _One… two…_

_Three!"_

They stepped in. Salazar slid through, his body passing through the puddle like a hot knife through butter and vanishing through the sand, but Godric was pushed against the side of the portal as he was about to go through, and he was swallowed up by the water a few seconds too late. "No!" He yelped, but vanished before Helga could grab his hand.

-PART TWO-

_Invernesss_

Salazar blinked.

He was lying down, on a bed of crunchy grass that scratched his back as he pulled himself up into a sitting position. He rubbed his head, looking around and wondering where on earth he was. It appeared he was in a stone circle, and from the dull sky he could tell it was still early in the morning: if there was something that hadn't changed since he had been here, it was clearly the weather. A copse of Scottish pines were scattered here and there, and around him was a grassy field devoid of people. A small village lay not too far away.

"Godric?" He asked, but no one replied.

He got up. Instinct told him to make a camp, but he ignored it and stumbled out of the stone circle, away from the sun that hit the standing stone and down the hill to what looked like a path.

It was strange, a path. He had not seen a path in the last thousand years, and this one was cobbled with flat, brown stones. Gingerly, he took it, marveling at how unnatural they felt beneath his feet. He looked up, seeing a village before his eyes that was half asleep.

Only, it wasn't quite the village he was used to. Unwavering lights shone in a few windows, not like the quivering flame of a candle burning through a wax stub. And the houses had strange, tiled roofs rather than thatched ones. The roads were smooth, painted black rather than left simply as brown dirt, and white lines had been dotted into the middle to show the way ahead.

_Inverness. _Salazar told himself.

But it looked nothing like he remembered. He wandered down to the sidewalk, marveling at its evenness. It was grey in colour, and showed no signs of anyone having walked on it before. He put out a hand in fascination to touch the tarmac of the road next to it, but a woman he did not see who had been walking behind him let out a cry.

"Och, what are ye doing!" She screeched. "Are ye alright sir?"

"I… I'm alright, my apologies," He said, and dusted his robes off as he walked away from her in the most casual way he could, though he could not help but realize that she kept giving him strange looks. It was then that he realized he had spoken to her in Old Irish.

_Scottish English,_ he told himself. _Modern English._ He knew it well enough to speak fluently, but it felt so alien to him all the same. The wind whipped through his hair. He had to find somewhere… anywhere that was familiar to him, and that was the only thing on his mind. There had to be a clachan, a shieling he remembered and the wild highland flowers that smelled so strong they burned his throat…

"Sard." He gasped. It felt good to say it.

He stumbled on a little further ahead. He could now see the square, where a few people milled in the early hours of the evening. They were dressed strangely too: coats of rich material that he guessed was wool, and dresses or trousers of something finer. There did not seem to be a single peasant on the streets.

"Hello?" He called in his best English, wondering if there would be anyone who knew where he was, but no one replied.

Frantically, he searched for Godric again, but no familiar face came out through the undergrowth towards. The realization told him that Godric must have travelled to another time. Dread clawed at his heart.

"Hello?" He said again, and there was no answer.

Salazar wandered to the town square. He realized that he was still wearing a travelling cloak and robes of which one might have been exhibited these days in a… in a whatever it was. A museum… but he could not care less. People who passed him by cast him strange looks, and others dared to stare at him until he looked them in the eye. He went into a store that he supposed sold food, after seeing people eating in the window, but he was unable to see meat or fruits of any kind. He went inside, and the woman at the counter gave him a strange look.

"A… a bowl of porridge." He stuttered, past memories of being able to order ale and slamming money on the table forgotten. "And a pint of ale to go with it."

"Ale?" The woman at the counter stared.

"Oh… do you not sell it?"

"Well, certainly no' here! Would ye no' be wanting coffee?"

"What on earth is coffee?" Salazar nearly said, but he said only: "Ah… I— I mean, yes. A cup of coffee. If you please."

The woman held out her hand. He rummaged in the folds of his robes for a money pouch. "Just a minute." He said, feeling around for it. "I believe I've got it somewhere… ah, yes."

He put a galleon into the woman's hand. She gawked at it, confused.

"And whae's this?" She asked. "I've no' seen the likes of this before."

"Er… Gold. Could you possibly change it with Mug— I mean, the currency around here?"

"Ye mean Great British pounds? If ye'd like me to, though ah'd hae thought ye'd exchanged it by the noo. But never mind that then, laddie." She took the coins. "But what are ye wearing, if ye don't mind my asking?"

"What?" Salazar asked, staring down at the clothes he wore everyday. "I am no mummer, if that's what you mean."

"Oh…" The woman said, still confused. "But are ye no' Irish then?"

"I suppose my speech betrayed that fact, yes I am."

"Really! Well, I've nae clue where it is you're from just guessing by your speech, but come tae think o' it I can hear a wee bit of the Irish if I listen verra hard and weel. I've seen nae Irishman whae sounds like ye still, but I suppose ye do speak like one noo that you tell me ye are Irish."

"Ah… Well then," Said Salazar, unable to think of a reply to this comment. "…Now in the case of my attire my lady, have you got clothing that I might wear, by the way? I'm afraid my own raiment is a little bit…?"

"Out o' place?" The woman finished for him. "We don't sell clothes either. If it's clothes ye want, they're over doon' the road. Have ye no' been here before?"

"No." Salazar said truthfully.

"Then ye've found the right place tae start." The woman introduced herself, and he thanked her for the directions. He was intrigued by the cutlery that was at the table, weighing it in his hands and wondering how common people would be able to afford metal utensils. The one with tines on it must be a fork, he guessed, and the one without was a spoon. He wondered how on earth he was to go about eating with them. The knife was serrated, and did not seem to be able to function like a dagger.

"Och, ye'd no' want tae do that." Said the woman when she saw him lightly stabbing the knife into the table. "Ye'd brak that knife, ken."

"Apologies." He set it down hastily. The woman glanced him up and down from his cloak to his travelling boots and the doublet he wore.

"An' yer sure that yer not an actor?" She said again.

"I am not— Look, I don't want to startle you much," He said, "I… I was in a… a reenactment, if that is what you call it these days. It was a battle reenactment. I got lost on my way back to Glencoe and came here to Inverness."

"Oh, I see." There was a new look of understanding on the woman's face, as if what Salazar had said made sense. "Then ye found the right spot. Which battle was it?"

"Er… Hastings?"

"Aye, but that was doon in England… Don't know why ye wuid want to have a reenactment all the wa' up here in that case but I suppose that's doon tae you."

"Well…" Salazar said vainly. Hastings had happened while he was still living after all, so of course he had said it was Hastings he was acting out. But now… it must be many years in the past. Had there been a history lesson on the subject, he wondered if it would be said that the battle was hundreds, maybe thousands of years old. He suppressed the urge to ask what year it was now.

"Do ye mind if ye tell me yer name?" The woman asked suddenly, and Salazar fumbled for one. "Septimus." He replied, after deciding that his middle name was the best name to use for this time. His first must have died out of usage long ago. As for his surname… it pained him to pick an Irish one that he thought would still be in use, and he figured that there were many surnames nowadays. He could stick to the truth.

"Septimus Slytherin."

"Well, it's nice to meet ye. Ye'll be wanting lodgings, no?"

"That would be welcome."

She made him sign a book of something with his name, and the date. "May the fifth," the woman said when his hand hovered over the page. "…And the year."

"Year?" He asked stupidly.

"Forty-seven." She laughed. "Did ye think it was forty-six now? Hogmanay wasnae tae lang ago!"

"Sorry… _What _forty-seven?"

"_Nineteen _forty-seven?" The woman asked, looking a little alarmed now. "Ye dinnae mean to tell me that ye don't even ken the century?"

"Oh. It's just… the new year hasn't quite caught up with me yet. The numbers and all… you know."

"I see. Hard to believe ye'd forgetten it tho'. War and all…" The woman looked away from him. "My son went to fight, ye ken. He's cam home noo a' least but the laddie buck went tae fecht in France an' ever since he cam' back ah don't reckon he'll ever be the same…"

"…I see," Salazar said. As the woman turned away hurriedly.

"Ah don't suppose ye've fecht for Ireland, tae be circumstantial, but o' course I'm no' saying that ye didn't. Did ye?"

"Er, no."

"I see," Said the woman, leaving Salazar to wonder exactly what had been going on back home after he had been gone for nearly a thousand years.

He went off to the clothing store later, confused as to why they sold the clothes they did. He went into the kilt rental store with the relief that there was something familiar, but when he saw all the tartans and clans, he knew he had been wrong. There were clothes at the tailor's down the road at least. The window displayed faceless mannequins in starch white shirts with crisp looking collars, and suspenders and trousers made of some rich, stiff material that felt new to the touch. The shoes were polished in shades of black or brown, and did not seem to be made for the grassy terrain of the highlands at all. Not the hobnailed bog shoes he was used to wearing, and when he asked the store owner about it the old man laughed:

"Och, them? Those are Irish dance shoes, aye. Ghillies, they're called. Dae ye want a new pair for your daughter perhaps? Those look near worn out."

Salazar, who looked annoyed to be reminded of his daughter's experiences with Irish dance at all, left with a few of these, along with the oddity of simpler vests than he was used to, and suspenders that he regarded suspiciously when the store owner gave them to him. He put them on inside a narrow stall and turned to look at himself in the mirror.

What he wore was a white shirt with a starched collar, a wrinkle-free grey vest, thin black tie, ironed grey suspenders, and polished black work-shoes. It still felt strange. He missed his old clothing.

Nonetheless, he snuck out when the owner was not looking, so he would not draw attention to himself. He wandered back into the place where he had eaten previously, and this time the people there did not look twice.

"A proper haircut and ye'll look braw." The woman there said to him when he came back, fully dressed in the uncomfortable clothing of the century. "Ye'll be a proper gentleman then."

"I… I will?"

"Oh, aye." She patted his chest. "Ye maun flatten yer hair a wee bit, but after that I suppose ye should be awright."

It had always been quite wavy. Salazar stared at his reflection later in his room, which had wallpaper printed with flower patterns rather than the usual wattle and daub, and the floor was carpeted. A strange contraption on the table by the bed gave light, which could be switched on by pulling a string attached to it. Salazar took his time trying to figure out how it worked by fumbling around with the strange device, but stopped when he accidentally pulled the plug from its socket.

"Mister Slytherin!" Cried the landlady when she walked in on him. He quickly got up and smoothed down his clothes.

"My lady," he said.

"Oh, that's alright. But what are ye daeing tae the lights?"

"I uh… nothing." Salazar muttered, and the landlady raised an eyebrow.

"Well, ah should hope so. If ye brak them ye'd hae tae pay for them, no' that I wuid particularly like asking ye for it. Have I been disturbing ye?"

"No," Salazar said, striding to the window and clasping his arms behind his back. "It's quite alright."

"If… if ye say so. Breakfast will be served at six."

"Yes, thank you."

She left. Salazar did not have a watch, but was clever enough to read the clock on the wall and tell that 'six' must mean that one of the hands would be pointing to the six printed on the plastic face. And it would be early in the morning, so he figured that it would be the slow-moving small hand to do the pointing. They did not have tierce and other less general times these days. No, there was a whole system. One that was too precise and too fast. He was good at sums, but he knew not how the time of day was calculated and was worried about whether or not this would be important and if he should ever need it, so he sat on the squeaky bed and tried to familiarize himself with the clock. It was a bizarre system to think of.

A whole system he did not know.

But the clock ticked until the hand hit ten, and the world outside became dark. He heard a couple returning back to their room, though they weren't speaking to each other. Salazar wondered if it was one of those petty fights he usually got into with Helga and if it could be from the usual cause, but he turned the lights out instead.

"Sard," he said again, and went to sleep.

-PART THREE-

_The Star-Spangled Banner_

Godric had arrived in the middle of an alleyway.

He stumbled out of it, brushing dead leaves from his sleeves and scaring away a swarthy looking stray cat from a nearby bin. "Salazar?" He called. No one answered.

He wandered out into the streets to find that it was packed with people, all dressed in strange clothes that were either black and white suits of rich material or fabrics of strong colors. They looked much tougher than cambric. "Excuse me," he said, tapping the arm of a young woman, but she mumbled something and made off to the other side of the street, casting him a strange look.

Her dress was much too short, as was her hair. Godric stared after her and looked around. The buildings were so tall they seemed to reach the sky, and each one looked to be the size of a castle. A few flags hung diagonally from the windows: red and blue, with white stars. A star spangled banner.

"Are you okay?" A girl asked in passing with strong vocal fry, when he saw Godric staring at the skyscraper. "You look lost."

She was a thin girl with long blonde hair and greenish-blue eyes, and was dressed in pants that were much too short— revealing her thighs. Her shirt was much too thin: it looked like a vest with very thin shoulder straps. Her accent, he noted, was like the one he was used to before the English changed theirs when the eighteen-hundreds came around, but it had a slight tinge of Irish. It was something to do with the way she pronounced her 'a's.

"I've lost my friend." Godric explained, also noting that the girl had not said anything of _his_ strange clothes. "He's slightly shorter than I, and his hair is dark. Curly."

"What does he wear?"

"Robes of green and silver."

"And what colour are his eyes?"

"_What sort of question is that?" _Godric wanted to say, but he said: "They're green. One would say that they are like emeralds."

"Are you sure you're not, like, gay?" The girl asked, giving him a look. He was about to ask her why his happiness was any of her concern, but he held the question back. "Not as of now." He said, wondering why that made her give him a strange stare.

The girl rummaged in the leather bag she wore on one shoulder. Pulling out an object that looked like a black, flat metal brick with one smooth glass side, she pressed a circular button on the end that made the glassy side light up white.

"What on earth is that?" Godric asked.

"A phone?"

She had the most peculiar way of speaking. The girl tapped something on the glass and made the screen display something else with rows of numbers on it. "What's his phone number?" She asked.

"His… what?"

"Phone number."

"I honestly have no idea what that is." Godric said. The girl's mouth dropped open.

"Oh my _God._ You don't know what a phone is?"

"Yes…. I mean, no."

"Look, I'm really sorry, but I can't help you if your friend doesn't even have a phone number." The girl pressed the thing in her hand again and the screen went black. She put it back into her bag. "But how could you _not _know? I mean, everyone has a phone. I would be dead if I didn't have a phone. Like, life would be too hard for me to even function."

"Is that like a sword?" Godric asked, dumbfounded.

"Noooo…? Where do you come from?"

"Gloucester."

"Is that in America?"

"It's in England."

"But England has phones." The girl said, dumbfounded. "There's literally nowhere now that doesn't have phones right now. I mean, it's like, the twenty-first century? Unless you're in somewhere like Africa… wherever that is in the world."

"Just under Europe." Godric told her, feeling a little like a teacher again. "But I need you to tell me something: Where am I and what year is it?"

"You're in New York… Um, it's two-thousand and nine."

"Two-thousand and…?"

That sounded about right for all the years he had seen go by, but he had a feeling that New York was not a place in Britain. After all, the first time he had heard the name 'York' was when the Black Prince had had one of his sons. "Which country is this?" He asked.

"This is America!" The girl cried, sounding slightly worried now. "How do you not even know where you are? Are you high or something?"

"High? What does that— I mean, never mind. I only need to know one thing: how do you get to England right now, if I were to get there?"

"Um… I think you like, take the plane."

"Why do you always say 'like' in between your words?"

"What?"

"Never mind. Just… how do I get to England?"

"Oh my god, I literally cannot even…" The girl sighed, but then she took out her phone again and switched it on. "England?" She asked. "Where is it?"

"The British Isles of course."

The girl raised her eyebrows. "How do you spell that?"

He gave her the spelling. She raised an eyebrow skeptically, but then tapped the screen with her thumbs. "I've always wanted to go there," she said after a while. "But, Oh it's in the UK, but like… _woah. _It's so far away. It's literally one day on an airplane."

"How far as the crow flies?"

"One whole ocean."

_One ocean. _It took sailors a year to travel so far. Godric told himself that it was alright, but he could see the reality of his situation like a beast's head slowly rising out of black water. If he was lucky though, the girl would only mean some undiscovered part of Ireland. "Which ship will get me to England?" He asked.

"Um… you don't go by ship."

"No?"

"You need a plane. It's loads faster."

_How fast? _Godric thought, and he could not imagine anything that would cross an ocean in the space of one day. Anyhow, he would have to have some idea of how far away America was from England, if he remembered anything from his lessons. "Which way must this plane turn its head?"

"Let's see… never eat shredded wheat…" The girl muttered and pointed her fingers. "Oh, you go east. I think."

"Ireland and Greenland lie to the west of Scotland, if it is true that I must head east. Are you sure this is not Ireland? Maybe even some… some strange part of the Hebrides?"

The girl stared. "Hebrides?"

"Yes."

"_No. _I told you, this is America." She put her phone away, making the screen go dark once more and shifted her weight to her other leg, assuming a more casual position as she stood there for a moment in thought. "Do you need a plane ticket or something?" She asked, "cause, like, I don't think you'll know what a laptop is if you don't know what a phone is. I was gonna go to my boyfriend's house anyways, I guess he won't mind if I take you along. He's not the jealous type. What's your name?"

"Godric Gryffindor, at your service."

The girl pursed her lips. "I have never heard of that name before. But anyways, I'm McKenzie." She held out her hand.

"McKenzie? Ah, music to my ears," He shook her hand heartily as she beamed. "What's your surname then?"

"It's Kennedy, like the president."

"Kennedy? You mean you _are _from Ireland?"

"Oh my god, no. Why do you keep saying that? I mean, my great-great grandfather came here from… Kilkenny I think… wherever that is… My mom told me"

"So you _must _be Irish. But perhaps you're a Mackenzie?"

"Who?"

"Come on. Clan Mackenzie?"

The girl gave him a weird look, and made an even weirder one when he shouted: _"Tullach Ard!" _To try and jog her memory, but she did not seem to recognize their battle cry in the slightest. "Okay, you're weird." She said, making Godric feel insulted. "But I'm gonna go to my boyfriend's house if you wanna come too. I mean, you need a ticket to get to wherever it was… England. Am I right?"

"Right you are."

"Oh, goody. So come with me and we'll go grab a Starbucks first."

She left him to wonder what _Starbucks _might be as he trailed behind her on the road, yet all the while he could not help but get distracted by his surroundings. The roads were so smooth they might as well have been made of perfectly sanded wood, and the buildings were so tall they could have been hills. Glass clearer than the sea protected their insides, the entirety of the building's structure meshed together with towering frames of strong steel. Metal adorned most other places too: silver door handles without knockers, painted red knobbly things on the road that McKenzie explained to him were fire hydrants (he had to ask about what those were). Even the clasps or buttons attached to the clothing of the people he passed by. All too rich… all to ignoring. Not a single hawker filled the streets, save for a beggar or two who even then, was much too richly dressed to look the part. The flash of red, yellow and green from a traffic light at an intersection caught Godric's eye, and he wondered what candles might burn inside. Salazar might have told him it was copper, if he recalled that copper burned with a green flame. It reminded him strangely of home, and he shuddered.

Where was Salazar? Or to be more right: _when _was he?

-PART FOUR-

_Claire Randall_

Salazar woke in the early morning, glancing at the clock on the wall where the short hand pointed past five. The longer one was on the ten.

He got up. There was a diagram he had drawn up on the bedside table, which was his attempt at figuring out how the strange contraption that was a clock worked. The little dots on the clock meant something, he had supposed, and he had timed how long it approximately took for the long hand to pass from one dot to another. As for the particular space of time that it was, he did not know its name, but he had an idea of how long it would take until it was until the long hand hit twelve. He changed into the new attire he had bought the day previously and tried to flatten his hair, which did absolutely nothing, but it submitted to being tidied up at least. By the time the long hand of the clock pointed somewhere past eleven he had given up and gone out of the door.

The couple he had heard yesterday were leaving their own room, not speaking to one another. The man had a mop of brown hair and wore something over his eyes made of absurdly clear glass that Salazar had never seen before, and the woman had curly brown hair that seemed to float over her shoulders. "Good morrow," he said curtly to them, and the woman stared. But the man said: "Morning," as he locked the door to their room.

They made their way downstairs and broke their fast, sitting at tables opposite one another. Salazar picked up his knife to eat out of instinct, but remembered what he ought to do and picked up the spoon. It was a handy object, he thought, spooning porridge into his mouth and watching the bespectacled man read out of the corner of his eye. A clever invention a spoon was, Salazar thought, though it looked like he was eating with a shovel as that happened to be its function. He also had a mind to ask the man opposite about his social status.

"Might I ask where it is you're from?" The man asked suddenly before Salazar could, closing the book he had been reading. His accent was one that Salazar had never heard before from anywhere around the world. but it was absurdly posh.

"Ireland," he replied. "And you?"

"England. And so is my… wife." The man glanced at the woman with the curly brown hair, who gave Salazar a wooden smile that he could tell was one she did not quite mean.

"Claire," she said quietly. "Claire… Randall."

"Septimus Slytherin," Salazar said. His mind protested loudly against the use of his father's name for himself, but he ignored it and reached out to shake the woman's hand.

"Frank Randall," her husband introduced, doing the same in turn. "That's an interesting surname, if I may say so. Do you know where it comes from?"

"Well, it is fairly old. I think I am the last of them." _Aside from Helena and Oberon, of course._

"So you have a pure bloodline, then?" Frank Randall asked interestedly. "Have you traced back you ancestors?"

"No," Salazar said quickly. "I have not." He knew his ancestors of course, but he would more likely have descendants of his line that might interest someone like Frank Randall, especially considering the man's present countenance. "Wouldn't you be interested in tracing your line back, then?" Mr Randall asked, and Salazar saw his wife, Claire, stiffen opposite him.

"I'm not quite sure—"

"—I have a friend who has documents." Mr Randall said. "Historical documents, I mean. He doesn't live too far away from here if you mind long walks, and it won't be too long."

"I thank you for the offer sir, but I believe that line-tracing wouldn't be a possible task." Salazar replied. "As a matter of fact, those documents would have to be older than you think to trace back my line."

"How old would they have to be then?"

"A few centuries, to be certain."

"Ah, so you suppose your more distant relations were a little well-known then?" Asked Mr Randall, who's interest seemed to be more fueled than it had been before. "Perhaps it'll take more digging than I expect. Not to worry though; records are easily traceable until the sixteenth century."

"Older." Salazar shook his head.

Claire Randall was still looking at him strangely. "Exactly when?" She asked, the hint of intrigue creeping into her voice too.

It was 1947 now. Salazar supposed that his time must have been a very—if not an _extremely_—long time ago. His birth date had been the December of 994 before even William the Conqueror's coronation (which he had lived to see at seventy years old, clinging on to Helga's arm for support) and so he wondered if he ought to tell Mrs. Randall a lie.

"Year 994." He said at last.

In the end it was Mr Randall who had persuaded Salazar to look through records ("if there are any.") and so they set off towards the house that belonged to his friend down in the village below. Salazar wondered what he might find: old transactions and IOUs never returned to him perhaps, or the letter he had been writing to some important duke and smudged because he had used his left hand (Rowena had helped him write it neatly anew). Or, he thought with growing interest, the yellowed piece of parchment that had been the deeds for the manor in Hangleton when it had been granted. But all the while he could not help but notice Mrs Randall's strange stares in his direction and the suspicious look behind her eyes when she did so.

"Is there something wrong?" He asked, but she shook her head in answer and turned away from him. Clearly though, that was not the case, for Salazar could see that her face betrayed everything she was thinking.

He wondered what Claire Randall really knew.

-PART FIVE-

_A Cup of Coffee_

"Paradise," McKenzie announced when she stopped by one of the glass shops, and she opened the absurdly clean glass door to let Godric inside. He stood on the marble floor, staring around. The hangings all had little bits of information on them, or they had symbols of a woman held within three concentric circles. _Starbucks, _it read. He wondered what that meant.

McKenzie went to the counter, telling the person behind it she and Godric's names, and then she was handed a slip of paper and told to wait for a moment. "What are you looking at?" She asked Godric.

"It's just… the richness of this place."

"I know, right? Starbucks is _the best." _McKenzie grinned, showing all her teeth. "They don't sell Pumpkin Spice Latte in summer and that really sucks, but their coffee is, like, _so _good."

"Right," Godric gave her a nod.

"Lemme guess, you don't know what coffee is."

"No."

"Oh my god, actually?" McKenzie's mouth fell open. "You _have _to try coffee. I literally cannot live without coffee."

"Is it something you drink every day?"

"No. But I do because I'm weird," She laughed. "If you don't drink coffee everyday then what do you drink?"

"…Water? Or something stronger at night when I've the thirst for it."

"What's that?"

"Never mind," said Godric, judging that she was too young to know. She must have read his thoughts, for now she asked: "How old are you?" Curling one blonde strand of hair around her finger to appear casual.

"How old?" _That would be dependable._ "I suppose you could say that I am currently three and twenty, but then you could also say that I am a few thousand years old."

"Ha-ha, very funny."

"I'm not being funny."

"Okay fine, you're not being funny," McKenzie sighed. "But what the eff is three and twenty? Wait… oh! You mean you're twenty-three? Why didn't you just say twenty-three?"

"That's… what I said."

"No it wasn't." She made her weird-face again. "You said three and twenty. But anyways, I'm seventeen."

"Oh," said Godric. "Alright."

"Two Frappuccino's," The barista's voice called suddenly, and McKenzie sauntered towards the counter. "Could you grab some straws?" She asked Godric.

"Some what?"

"Straws."

He scanned the place. Whatever straws was, he had no idea, but he figured there must be something long and thin to suck the drink out of. He spotted some little plastic cylinders and took two, marveling at how they bent when he squeezed them.

"Don't _bend _them!" McKenzie squealed, taking the straws from him and tearing off the paper covering. "Otherwise you're not gonna be able to drink out of it. Look, here's your coffee. Try it."

She passed the other cup to him. It was cold, and filled with a brownish liquid that had a tall swirl of white cream on top. He stared at it curiously as McKenzie opened a straw for him. "Go on, try it," she said again, pushing the straw in through the cream.

He stared at it somewhat hesitantly until he saw her looking at him in earnest over her own cup.

"What?" He asked.

"Aren't you going to try it?"

He put his lips to the straw and sucked in a breath.

The icy liquid shot up into his mouth. It surprised him, but he managed to hold it in. Tasting something bittersweet as it warmed and the flavor became stronger, he quickly swallowed the liquid, feeling a bitter aftertaste lingering in the roof of his mouth once it had gone.

"Is it good?" McKenzie asked.

"Surprisingly, yes," He gasped, and it did taste good— to a certain extent. He tore open a paper packet with SUGAR printed on it and dumped half in, mixing it into the coffee with the straw and chugging some more. Ale and wine was still the better, he thought privately, but coffee would suffice for now. It was hardly bad at all.

McKenzie was happy to see that he liked the coffee.

"Could I take a picture of you?" She asked, taking her phone out of her bag and tapping something on the screen. "I mean, this is literally your first time drinking it."

"Is that a crime now?"

"Oh my god, no. It's just so cute. Can I? Please?"

She gave Godric a smile that reminded him of when he had begged for more sweetmeats after luncheon as a child, though he had always been denied. "Alright," he said, not knowing what she meant by 'picture'. "Do what you like, but do not harm me."

She made him put his mouth to the straw again ("don't drink it yet!") and directed him as to how his face should look and where his hair ought to be ("It looks better behind your ears"). She pestered him about how he ought to be looking at the black square on the phone that she kept pointing to as well ("No, look at the _camera!"), _and so he tried to comply with all these instructions so that this 'picture' would all be done and over with_._

"Your eyes are _so _blue," she crooned once he had gotten him into the position she wanted. "So you just keep those eyes up at the camera until I say you're done. Got it?"

"Alright."

"_No!_ Don't _move. _Okay are you ready? One… two… three… smile!"

The phone gave a _click! _Sound, and she grinned at whatever was on the phone.

"Can I see?" Godric asked.

She turned the screen towards him. His face stared back at him, and he was surprised to see how realistic it was. In fact it looked so much like his own face that he was unsure of whether he was looking in a mirror.

"But you didn't paint it?"

"Um, no! Obviously not. Can I put it on my Snapchat?"

"What's that?"

"Oh, it's like this… thing," McKenzie said unhelpfully. "And then people get to see the photo and stuff. I mean, like, do you mind?"

"Not at all," Godric supposed, and she giggled as she tapped her phone again some more. It reminded him of Helena, who was always giggling whenever he said something.

"What?" McKenzie asked, noticing his stare.

"Never mind. You just reminded me of someone."

"Who?"

He did not want to lie, but he did not want this girl hearing so much about himself in his past life all those years ago. As nice as she was, she would not understand the past.

"She was the daughter of a friend of mine," Godric said at last.

"What happened to her?"

"She passed. I do not know how that came to be, but I know only that it happened. She was barely seventeen when she died."

"Oh," McKenzie said. "I'm so sorry."

"It's alright, it happened far too long ago now."

"How long?"

"Longer than you think," Godric said, catching her eye. "You'd be surprised."

"Nah, why would I be? I mean, it's not gonna be like a million years ago. Unless you're, like, some sort of crazy time traveler."

"Well I'll not comment on that, but I do _mean_ a very long time. More years than you could ever imagine." He bit his straw in contemplation, which made McKenzie let out a noise similar to a cat being strangled. "Ah sorry," He said apologetically. "I'm afraid I'll have to take some of these straw things with me, they're some awfully curious inventions…"

"You suuuuuck…." McKenzie wailed as he took another straw from a nearby utensil-holder, and he wondered in afterthought if she knew his reason for doing things. He thought if she would ever take him seriously.

-PART SIX-

_The Papers of Reverend Wakefield_

"Ah, Mr Randall." The man Salazar supposed was Reverend Wakefield came bobbing to meet Frank at the door, smiling genially. "And Mrs Randall of course."

"Reverend," Claire Randall said back.

"This is Septimus Slytherin," Frank said to the reverend as Salazar nodded his head politely in response. "It's quite a long story, I hope you don't mind."

"Oh that's quite alright Mr Randall, do tell."

"Well to keep it short we were talking about ancestry not a long while ago, and I've just been wondering about his family records. Don't suppose you'd happen to have any ideas?"

"Family records again, did you say?" the reverend let them inside the house, and they filed inside the living room with a nod to the elderly woman that must be the reverend's wife. "Well, I'm certain you can find some if you look hard enough, though I'm going to have to know a bit more about you. Are you Scottish Mr Slytherin?"

"No, I'm Irish, although I do believe there was a Scotsman or two in the family. A Grant, maybe. I cannot be sure."

"Oh, that's alright then. The scots first came over from Ireland and settled here when the Romans were there. Though I daresay you might want a spot of tea first before I go into the details?"

_First coffee, now tea. What on earth was tea?_ "I'm fine, thank you," Salazar said politely.

"If I could take Mr Slytherin to look at the records first," Mrs Randall began, "Would that be alright?"

She was addressing her husband too, though she looked at the reverend. The two men glanced between Mrs Randall and Salazar, and then: "Oh, alright." And "Go on ahead," and at this, Mrs Randall led Salazar into a room filled with charts and shelves stacked with heavy books. She seemed quite determined, but she did not begin with the lecture Salazar had been expecting.

"Mr Slytherin," she said as he was pretending to peruse the shelves, "I hope you don't mind, but I'd just like to ask you a few questions."

"I… how do you mean?"

Mrs Randall took a seat in an armchair, crossing one leg over the other. "I'm sorry if it troubles you," She said, as if he were an old man hard of hearing, "But there are some… things about you that I'd like to enquire."

"Well of course, but that will depend on the nature of the question."

"Do personal questions bother you?"

"I… beg your pardon?" Salazar touched his gelled down hair, and Mrs Randall gave him an inquisitive, but stern look. "You see," She began in a forcefully gathered tone, "I'm not quite sure of who you are, and I suppose I'd like to know a little more about you. Perhaps you can tell me the date today, Mr Slytherin?"

"The fifth of May," He replied cordially. "Why, have you forgotten?"

"And the year?"

"1947."

"In full, please."'

He checked his watch and cleared his throat: "It is presently five minutes past seven in the United Kingdom and the date is May the fifth of 1947, Mrs Randall. Does that answer your question?"

"Very well then," She said unconvincingly. Salazar watched her look momentarily at her lap before staring up at him pointedly. "Mr Slytherin, could you tell me what Magnesium is?"

"Is this some sort of alchemy exam?"

"Please just answer the question."

It was alchemy that she was asking in truth. _Chemistry, _he corrected himself as the modern term surfaced in his mind. Muggle science had developed since his time to a point where its capabilities were of similar standing to the knowledge of potions in the time he had lived. Grudgingly, he had to admit that his interest had been snared, having kept up with the world of modern science as he watched the world from afar. He would always be the potions master, but the workings of chemistry had enticed him.

As for _Magnesium… _He had never heard iton its own ever before, but he knew from the sound that the word was Greek. "A metal," He answered, "That burns white hot and reacts quickly. Alchemists called it _Magnesium Alba, _for the colour in which it burned." _In my time, at least._

"And Argon?"

"A slow acting substance."

"Substance, is it? Are you sure?"

"An element I mean."

"Hm," Said Mrs Randall, but she gave him another question. "When was William the Conqueror crowned?"

"Ten sixty-six on the twenty fifth of December after having defeated the English at the Battle of Hastings," Salazar remembered bowing down to this king, when he had been seventy. "Of course I know what happened there, I saw it— I mean, I saw it in a book."

Mrs Randall looked far too interested, nonetheless, she got up indifferently. "If you don't mind, I'll look through these records for anything of your family. Perhaps you'd like to join my husband and the reverend for tea?"

"Of course, madam," Salazar said, and left.

-PART SEVEN-

_Closer to Home_

McKenzie rang the doorbell. It made a muffled plastic noise from within the house, which made Godric wonder how big a bell must be inside it. "He's probably showering," McKenzie explained as they waited, "But he won't take like, _that _long. Oh no wait, he's coming."

She straightened her clothes and brushed back her hair with her fingers. Godric stared, wondering why she was so fussed. She was rather pretty after all, though she had clearly painted her face. But then the door opened to reveal a young man about McKenzie's own age, stood in the doorway with a confused look on his face. His hair was slightly damp from his bath.

"Who's this?" The man asked McKenzie, pointing at Godric.

"He's someone who I found on the street. He's lost."

"You found on _the what?"_

Mckenzie went up to him and cupped her hands around his ear. She whispered something, casting glances back at Godric all the while, then she withdrew, and told Godric to follow her into the room. Godric gave her a confused look, but seeing the young man still standing in the doorway, he stopped and gave him a friendly 'hullo'.

The young man gaped. "Babe," he stammered at McKenzie, "You can't. You don't even _know_ him."

"Oh my god, he's not gonna do anything and I'm gonna make sure he doesn't, and he's lost. You're cute when you're paranoid though, I like it."

"Yeah but—" Said the young man, unfazed by this compliment.

"Ugh, it's _fine. _Stop worrying. Oh,this is Ryder, by the way." McKenzie said to Godric as she jerked her thumb at the young man. Godric raised his eyebrows.

"We are well met," He said, holding out his hand.

"Um… hi." Ryder shook Godric's hand, though his grasp appallingly weak and his shake was even weaker. In the very least, he had the grace not to wipe his hand on his pants immediately after. The young man then asked Godric if he would be coming in and drifted off into the house, disappearing into one room and closing the door quietly behind him. McKenzie smiled and rolled her eyes, but she went to the table that stood at the far wall by a big window, sitting down and patting the seat next to her, indicating for Godric to sit. He did, and from a drawer in the table she took out a slim silver thing that looked like a pageless book.

"This," She explained proudly, "Is a laptop."

There was a white symbol of an apple on the front of it, and it glowed when she opened the lid. "It's like a phone, but like, heavier."

"A perpendicular book, you mean?"

"A perpen-what?"

"I suppose you would have learnt it in your arithmetic lessons."

"Oh, math." McKenzie waved a hand impatiently. "Who cares about that?"

"It's a fascinating subject, how could you possibly—? Well, I suppose that's not in your best interests but then, some people are just that way… It's quite simple. To be perpendicular is to be at a ninety-degree angle, like a square." Godric used his hands to demonstrate. "See?"

"How come you're so good at math?"

"Oh, I taught it. Just a bit, but I did. Did you know, Helena Ravenclaw could tell you the distance between the stars. She would calculate the distance between the stars from furlongs to inches, and she estimated all of it with her fingertips."

McKenzie watched him spread his thumb and pinky and tap both ends. "Like that," He said, holding it up to measure the sky outside the window as if the galaxy was spangled across it. "She told me the distance between the stars. Perhaps they move around us, she said. Or maybe it's us that move around them. Or perhaps they're just out there and we're moving about this big vast space like a top in an eternal spin, and we revolve around the sun forever and ever as the seasons go by. It all makes sense that way."

"Oh," Said McKenzie, her voice distant. And then they said nothing to each other for a short while.

The laptop screen glowed to life.

"Her father," Godric began, "made the same theory too, when he stood by his window in the evening and stared out into the beyond. 'Godric,' he told me one fine eve when the sky was blue with stars, 'The church may have a say in the ways of the earth, but this world is not a flat one.'"

"Everyone knows that." McKenzie said softly, humming a song under her breath as she clicked a few things on the laptop. Godric watched it in fascination, never having seen anything like it before. "Fascinating," he murmured, and McKenzie smiled.

She opened up something with many different times on it and many different places. There was a picture of a sleek, white thing in the sky, with long rectangular, blazing white wings protruding from either of its sides. "Heavens!" Said Godric. "What's that?"

"Oh, it's an airplane." McKenzie said indifferently. "It flies long distance."

"As long as a horse can run?"

"Sort of," McKenzie smiled. "You'll be surprised."

She clicked a few things and then after a while announced: "Got it!"

"You have?" Godric asked, and she pointed to the words on the screen: AMERICAN AIRLINES, it said, and amongst a table: GLOUCESTERSHIRE AIRPORT, UK.

"By the Lord! You've got it indeed."

"Yep. Five o'clock PM. That's in a few hours."

Shall we be off then?"

"Um, no! It's still too early! But there's still one more thing." McKenzie grinned and closed the laptop. "You're not gonna go out like that, so I'm here right now to make sure you get a makeover."

"Makeover?"

"Yup. This instant!" She crossed the room and gently opened the door to Ryder's room, slipping into the gap. "Ryder," She said sweetly, "Can I use your clothes?"

"You want my hoodie again?"

"No, but like, guy outside needs to get changed. Can he? Please? He can't walk around here in his own clothes."

"What's wrong with them?"

"Well _look _at them, he's not gonna go out like that. I mean, no offense but it looks like he walked out of the National Museum."

The young man craned his neck over McKenzie's shoulder and glanced at Godric.

"Uh, yeah." He said. "Sure babe."

"Sweet." McKenzie swooped down to give him a kiss and took a pile of clothes from a set of drawers. Emerging from the room carrying a neatly folded pile, she passed these on to Godric. "He's your size," She said, beaming. "Get these on in the bathroom."

She showed him where it was, and he put the clothes on. A faded green T shirt, a pair of worn but well-fitting jeans, a thin button-down shirt in red and black tartan. He pulled these on, finding that they were surprisingly comfortable: the trousers were cool and smooth against his skin, and the shirt was made of some pleasantly light material that he guessed was cotton. Looking at the tall mirror, he found that he was quite pleased with McKenzie's selection.

From the pile of his old clothes, he removed his wand, slipping it into the jeans pocket and concealing it with the green T shirt. Then he removed the straw he had taken earlier, placing it carefully into the other pocket.

Just then, there was a knock on the bathroom door. "How does a haircut sound to you?" McKenzie's muffled voice asked.

He studied his hair in the mirror once again. It was very blonde and went down to his shoulders as usual, although perhaps he didn't mind a bit of a cut. After all, it had not been cut short since he was two and twenty years of age. A haircut would be nice he supposed.

"Absolutely," He said, and McKenzie nearly squealed in excitement. He supposed she happened to like cutting hair.

A few hours later they were ready to go, his hair cut short once again, the stubble that had always been on his chin shaved clean, and his old clothes put into a rucksack. McKenzie snatched her purse from the table and opened the door of the apartment, slipping on a pair of black and white sneakers and giving a pair of shoes to Godric. They were Ryder's probably: large leather-brown shoes with thick white bottoms.

"Ready?" McKenzie asked, smiling at him as if admiring her own handiwork.

He grinned back.

"Ready."

-PART EIGHT-

_The Veils of Time_

For Salazar, a wonderful golden dusk had settled over the village of Inverness, and warm lights in the windows of houses were coming on as people began their dinners, but unlike them he was alone and growing more desperate in his attempt to make sense of the room's workings. He was in his room again, sitting on the edge of the small bed with its flower print quilts and studying the yellow lampshade.

He pulled the white beaded string as it made a _click!_ and the warm yellow light disappeared, replaced with the dark blue of a summer evening. Silently, he got up and looked out of the darkening window.

He would have to ask someone the date. He had been thinking about the moon and the weather, for after seeing these things he would be able to discern what it might be and figure out the best time to be getting back to his place, though the trouble was that it was a silly thing to ask. Who did not keep track of the months after all?

There was a muffled knock at his door. He hurriedly switched on the lights and got up to open it, surprised to find Claire Randall standing there fully dressed for the outdoors in a white coat, alone in the hallway. "Are you busy?" She asked politely.

"Oh no, not at all." He smoothed his hair carefully, suddenly self-conscious. "You came to visit?"

"I was going to ask if you wanted to go for a walk."

Had she made this her first question, Salazar would have said that he was busy, but she had made sure that did not happen. He considered saying that he was tired, but one look at Mrs Randall's face told him that she would give him no choice but to say yes.

He squared his shoulders. "Of course."

"Wonderful," Mrs Randall said. "I wanted to take you to see something that I saw with my husband the other day. I thought you might like to see it too."

"Will it just be the two of us?"

"Yes, my husband's worn out; he needs to lie down for a bit." She avoided his eyes as Salazar put on a coat and a scarf, and as he was doing so he realized that she must have made sure Frank Randall was out of the way. He must not truly be worn out. Perhaps he did not know why his wife was out at all.

He followed her down the stairs and came into the check-in rather hurriedly, so as not to draw attention to themselves, and exited quietly through the door. It was growing quite dark already outside, the sky turning into the deep cornflower blue of a summer evening streaked with fiery orange. Salazar followed Mrs Randall with growing anticipation as they walked along the pavement.

Any longer here and he would spend his days here for longer than he intended, he thought as he watched her hurried footsteps. The time slippage had warped the turns of the moon, and he could only hope that the time would be near where the veil between life and death was thin… elsewise he would be trapped here evading Mrs Randall's questions forever. He shivered as he walked, pulling his cloak tighter around himself.

They were reaching the end of the village. The houses were lessening, and soon they had reached a part of the road where there was only a single line of suburban houses along the pavement. Behind that was only a grassy field that sloped gently upwards, and then a short while later the houses disappeared. It was here that Mrs Randall turned off the sidewalk and onto the grass. Salazar watched her make her way upwards and he followed her, sighting a small, raised part of the field in the distance covered by a sparse copse of Scottish pines. Sunlight shone through the leaves with its golden evening rays, and the shadow of stones could be seen within the trees. Salazar stopped in his tracks.

"Well are you coming then?" Mrs Randall asked, turning around.

"It's… It's alright. I—I'll head on back. I don't think I should be here."

"Whatever's the matter? Don't you want to come and see? It's the first of May after all; they say that Beltane nights are the best days to see such old relics." She had a sad smile on her face, but her words were of more importance to Salazar.

It was the first of May… the Beltane! And how right she was, that it was the best day to see old relics on such an eve as this one. But that was not why she had brought him here. He knew why he had come here again. Why he had been led here to the stones between the trees for the Beltane night, come as it had ever since the dawn of time. There was something Claire Randall knew about this place that she had kept hidden from everyone around here. Either for fear of being declared a pagan or a charlatan, one could never be sure. But there was a truth about the stones she had seen, and Salazar knew it too.

"You know why I'm here, don't you?" He asked. "You know who I am?"

"No, I don't," She admitted, shaking her head as she held out her hand to him. "I know almost nothing about yourself, but this place is certainly the only reason you come to be here in 1945. Come quickly."

She waited for him to catch up to her and they began to make their way up the rise. "This place operates in strange ways," Mrs Randall explained over the sudden rush of wind. "I know you came through the stones."

"How…?"

"I can't say it."

"Are you the only person who knows?"

"If I was ever taken seriously."

They fell into silence as they reached the crest of the hill. A circle of weathered, grey standing stones stood there on the rise between the trees, bathed in a golden evening light that shifted as the trees swayed. Claire Randall crossed over to the largest stone.

"There are things," She began with a sigh, "that I know which others are not ready to accept. Here the veils of time are thin, and a passerby caught unwary may slip through and disappear to the present world. When I went through I was… disorientated, amongst a band of redcoats. I was lost in a Scotland that still wielded a sword."

"Were you hoping to go back?" Salazar asked gently.

She caressed the fourth finger of her right hand, where there were two wedding rings: one gold band and one silver band glinted in the light.

"My husband forbade me to say a word," She explained, stroking the rings, "And I'm afraid I can't say much more than that. I'd rather do as he tells me to… he's got his reasons sometimes and I understand…"

"I see." Salazar held up his own hand, upon which were also two rings: the silver Celtic knot he wore each time a day as this came around, and the burnished gold wedding band from the day he had married Deirdre.

"Well… Now you see," Mrs Randall said, flustered. "Though I must say that it's getting late and I shouldn't say any more. I'll be going back now, and so should you."

"Back to the village?"

"No, back to where you truly belong. You belong somewhere else, in a different time." She took his hand in her warmer, leather gloved one and led him to the tallest stone. "It's time you went back."

A soft wind began to blow, setting the trees waving. Salazar glanced at Mrs Randall's hand again: the one with the two rings on her fourth finger that flashed under the evening light.

"Who was the other man?" He asked her softly.

"I can't say."

"Madam, I promise you that I won't speak a word of it to your husband or anyone else. After I am gone I shall be in my own time."

"When was your time?"

"I don't know. I've been gone for too many years for anyone to care, but the man you seek… Who was he?"

Mrs Randall looked as if she wanted the stone to swallow her up, but she closed her eyes and hunched up in her coat. "He was a soldier two hundred years ago," She said, rocking slowly on the spot. "I don't know his fate. All I know is that he was destined to Culloden Moor and that something must have happened to him there… But there were just too many men. Perhaps I will never know."

She took a deep breath in an effort to stay calm, but then suddenly she opened her eyes and looked at the sky. "Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ," She cursed. "Frank will wonder where I've gone. You've got to go now, there's no time left to spare."

"But madam… Mrs Randall! You haven't told me…"

"No, it's not important. I've been here too long." She gathered herself together and made her descent down the hill. "You need to go now, it's getting late."

"Mrs Randall—!"

"Goodbye, Mr Slytherin." She turned away from him and made her way quickly down the slope, her wild brown hair floating in the wind.

"Madam!" He called again, but she did not turn back. He whipped back around and stared at the stone in disbelief, reeling from the past string of events and unsure of what to do. So this was it? All he had to do was go back through the stones and return back to Helga and Rowena? He could hardly believe how easy all of it suddenly seemed.

Suddenly he felt something in the darkness brush past him. His hand flew instinctively to his sleeve, but realizing his wand was not there and that he had stupidly left it behind with Helga, he turned around with his fists balled. It was hard to see in the dark, but he made out the shape of a tall man in the darkness.

He wore a blue bonnet with a white cockade and a great kilt of a faded blue-and-brown hunting tartan. Under the cap Salazar could see wild tangles of cinnamon red hair. A _scian dubh _was tucked into the man's woolen socks, and he wore a tall rifle slung diagonally at his back. At his hip hung a basket sword— a claymore, the reknowned Jacobite weapon that belonged, Salazar realized, far far away in the past where swords nowadays belonged.

The highlander was staring off into the distance after at the disappearing figure of Claire Randall over the field. "Hi you!" Salazar began, and at that the man turned around.

He looked a bit like Simon Fraser of old, Salazar supposed.

Mrs Randall's words came back to him. _Destined to die at Culloden Moor, _she had said, and suddenly he realized who the other man must be.

"Rest easy, soldier," He called, and then when the mystery man turned around, he raised his chin._"Sl__á__n leat."_

The highlander nodded back. Then turning around, the shadow of Jamie Fraser made his way down the hill soundlessly in the grass after the receding figure of Claire Randall. She would not see him, Salazar knew, but she would be able to sense his presence beside her. Perhaps then she would be comforted.

He turned back to the stone. Mrs Randall was right to say that he had been here too long, and he knew now that it was high time that he should be getting back. He raised his hand to the stone, the two rings on his own finger shining a burnished gold and silver in the dying light.

Looking around for the last time at the vast Highland landscape and the darkening sky, he placed his hands firmly on the rough stone, and Inverness vanished around him.

-PART NINE-

_The Magician at the Airport_

"Hur-_ry!" _McKenzie tugged on Godric's hand. "We gotta get you on this plane."

They had taken the taxi out from Manhattan to Queens, which McKenzie explained was still New York. It was darkening all around now, but the lights in the glass of the towering buildings lining the streets were still alight with bright white and yellow, and the whole city was alive with activity.

"I thought you said it was the evening?" Godric yelled above the sound of the city around him.

"Oh, yeah," McKenzie laughed, following a small exodus of other commuters into a massive glass building. "Everybody's coming home from wherever it is they work, that's why. But like, everyone says New York is the city that never sleeps!"

"Good God," Godric muttered in disbelief. "And now what is this building?"

"JFK airport."

"What?"

"Short for John F Kennedy."

"Heavens, this place is full of Irishmen," He began, and McKenzie rolled her eyes at him. "For the last time this is _not _Ireland," She snapped. Come _on, _we gotta get you on the plane! Don't you have passports and stuff?"

"A what?"

Her eyes widened. "Don't tell me you don't have a passport!"

Godric looked dumbfounded. She ran her hands through her hair in exasperation and looked pleadingly at him. "How the hell did you get here then?"

"You wouldn't understand if I told you."

"What the hell _are _you?!"

"Stop shouting! I tell you what…" Godric drew his wand. "There is a way I can get in without any documents. I know, I know it sounds crazy to you," he began as McKenzie opened her mouth to protest, "Though I promise you that we will get through this without any of those confounded documents. Say nothing and follow me, but keep your moth closed."

McKenzie followed him inside, despite her muttering under her breath about how he had lost his mind and how a stick was going to save them now, but he ignored her. She was certainly a muggle. There was no way that she would know how to get around things. As for the Ministry of Magic here… well, they wouldn't catch him if he was careful. They weren't able to track dead men after all, were they?

McKenzie pulled him over to a row of counters. "My plan was to go like a normal person and get your tickets. You're supposed to give in your passport here," She hissed. "If you don't have one I really can't help you."

"We don't need one."

"What?

He made his way over to one of the counters that McKenzie had pointed out. "No baggage?" Asked the woman at the counter skeptically, and Godric nodded. The woman held out her hand. "Passport please?"

McKenzie raised an eyebrow.

"_Imperio," _Said Godric.

The woman's eyes grew glassy, and suddenly it was as if she were a robot waiting for instructions. "I'd like you to hand over a ticket to Gloucestershire Airport and forget about asking me for my passport," Godric instructed, as McKenzie's mouth dropped open. "In fact, you'll forget everything about me and everything I have said so far. You'll forget about this girl here too, and you won't mention a word of this encounter to anyone else. You'll carry on your day as normal, and you will remember only that there was a young lady accompanying her dear old dad to get a plane ticket on… on a..."

"T—trip to England," McKenzie said weakly.

"Yep, trip."

The lady typed something down in a robotic manner and handed him a rectangle of paper with something printed on it. "Thank you, my darling," Godric said, leaning over and pecking her cheek, though the woman still looked empty of any life. "McKenzie, has anyone noticed us?"

"Just… J—just him," McKenzie pointed at an old man who's face had gone white with shock. Godric strode over to him and whispered _"Obliviate," _and colour returned to the man's face as he returned back to his normal business.

McKenzie had so far forgotten to close her mouth. "Well are you coming then?" Godric asked, as he made his way to the security area.

He managed to fudge everything. McKenzie could only watch him obliviate every single security guard and disable the metal detectors under his breath, so as not to rouse suspicion. It was not so easy however, he had to be careful to shut down and switch on every computer and device that McKenzie pointed out, and obliviate security guards before they sounded an alarm. It was a long time before they got out safely and the last security guard had been obliviated. Godric led McKenzie out by the shoulder and gave a great sigh of relief. "That was fun, eh?" He asked her, and she said nothing.

"Cat got your tongue?"

"W— What was that?" McKenzie stammered.

"Nothing you know of."

"That wasn't magic, was it?"

Godric gave her a sly smile. "Just you wait," He said, and she looked even more spooked.

They relaxed for a while in the lounge. Or at least, it was Godric who was relaxing: McKenzie was surprisingly quiet rather than bubbly for a change. She sat opposite him, huddled on a stool and scrolling idly at her phone, the screen lighting her face in the dimness of the room. She was a promising young lady, Godric thought to himself. At the end of this all he would be sorry to see her go.

He watched her for a while, then turning to the glass window he began to hum under his breath_ Loch Lomond._

"_Oh ye'll tak the high road_

_And I'll tak the low._

_And I'll be in Scotland afore ye,_

_But me and my true love will ne'er meet again_

_By the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond."_

"That's a pretty song," McKenzie said suddenly, looking up from her phone. "Is it from Scotland?"

"Yes. It was written a very long time ago."

"Do you find it, like, relatable? I mean like, I listen to songs I can relate to."

"Of course," Said Godric reasonably. "I quite like this one. An old air that not many common folk sing nowadays I suppose."

McKenzie sighed, sweeping her long blonde hair over her shoulder. "Why're you going to England at all?"

"I belong there."

"But you don't even have, like, a phone. Like I said, I was pretty sure England has phones."

"There are things that you shouldn't know that I shan't be telling you. I'm sorry to say it and I wish you could understand, but I can't speak for myself."

"Why not?"

"You wouldn't believe me." Godric smiled sadly. "I admire your ability to believe in an old crackpot like me, McKenzie, but you wouldn't believe everything I tell you."

She regarded him with a strange look, but then after a while she sighed and got up. "We should go now," She announced. "It's half-past. I guess you can… like… trick your way through everything. I swear to God if that wasn't staged I don't know what the hell that was…"

"Oh, I don't know what that was either. I suppose you'll have to decide for yourself."

They made their way to the boarding area, not speaking to each other for once. It was a comparatively quiet place than the chaos that had been the security checks and the flight check ins, and there were hardly any people at all. "This is your flight," McKenzie said as they approached the small line of people waiting at the gate. "Show the lady over there your ticket and take whatever she gives you, then you can make your own way from there. It's gonna be a seven hour flight so I guess it won't be that long but hang in there. If you, like, need my help…" She rummaged in her purse and took out a pen and an old receipt, scrawling something on it and handing it to Godric. "…Call me when you get there. Just ask someone for their phone and then make them dial this number or something, and when I pick up I can help you, or if Ryder picks up then you can ask him. If anyone on the phone asks for anything like money and all then refer it to me and I'll handle it, capeesh?"

"_Sì, capisce. _You never told me you spoke Italian."

"What? Ok you're weird." McKenzie rolled her eyes. "Now get on the flight, buster. It's time you left."

He joined the line of people waiting to board the flight. "I'm sorry to see you go," He told McKenzie, who smiled modestly.

"Yeah, it's been loads of fun."

"And to think that we might never meet again! I should very much have liked to spend more time with you, but that can't be so…" He trailed off, then suddenly his face lit up.

"I tell you what though, McKenzie, I have something for you to remember me by."

"What?"

"A small memoir." He pulled the straw from his pocket. "I was planning on saving this and I know you can get a lot of these from your local coffee shop, but even so..."

"Isn't this...?" McKenzie took it gingerly from him, rolling it in her fingers.

"Oh yes. The very one from… Starbucks, whatever you call it." Godric smiled. "I know it's not much; there are better things and small tokens that I could gift you if I had them with me now, but take this straw as a little memoir. Will you?"

"Y—Yeah. Of course."

"Brilliant."

McKenzie slipped the straw into her purse. "You know, I'm gonna miss you after this!" She exclaimed, and then suddenly she looked up and gave him a sad but hopeful smile.

"Can I get a hug?"

He held out his arms, and as she stepped into his embrace he held her tightly in a fierce hug. "I don't want you to go, oh my god," She whispered, and he patted her head soothingly as if she were a child. "Well, I couldn't stay forever," He said quietly, "And sometimes you have to let people go, McKenzie. You'll understand soon that you must let go of things as they pass with time. I promise you though, I'll be around when you least expect it."

"You what?"

"Aren't I a magician to you?" He grinned as they pulled away. "Time binds me, but it takes two to play a game. Right now though, time tells me to hurry."

"Sure thing, buster." McKenzie smiled, and hoisting her purse she gave a small wave and began to walk away.

"Goodbye, McKenzie Kennedy," Godric said, giving his ticket to the hostess. "God speed, and may you fare well!"

"Goodbye! And good luck!"

He followed the line of people down the gangplank, wand clutched tight in his hand as he waved at the receding figure of McKenzie, a bittersweet smile upon his face.

-PART TEN-

_The Fields of England_

"_Dear passengers, this is your captain speaking… We have just landed at Gloucestershire Airport and it is five o' clock in the afternoon, UK time, so set your watches ahead by five hours… _

Godric turned away from the window. Stretching, he unclipped his seatbelt and stumbled out of his seat, stopping to help an old couple retrieve their baggage from the overhead cabin. The captain's pleasant voice was still on the speaker: _"…The weather outside is warm at twenty-seven degrees Celsius, looks like a beautiful evening…"_

It was indeed. The tarmac outside and the strip of green field beyond it was ablaze in a dying golden light. He stood up and gazed out of the thick round window

_Be sure to take all your belongings with you… We hope you have enjoyed your time with American Airlines and hope to see you again. I'm Ray Raynor, it's been a pleasure flying with you. Captain signing off…"_

There was a thumping noise on the speaker as it switched off. Godric made his way out of the plane and stepped out onto the ground: the hard black tarmac of the runway.

_England._

The sky was light blue, washed with a fiery sunset. It was greener here, with green and brown meadows all around, and the rolling fields and hills dotted with trees in the distance. Paved roads cut their way into the farmland now, but Gloucestershire as Godric remembered it had changed little. The air… he breathed it in. It was fresher than the city, and he was more used to it here. For as long as he had conscious being, he would be a man of the hills and the fields. A man of the West Country.

He sighed and made his way towards the terminal.

It was a bit like a shed inside, unlike the glass buildings of America. Godric felt more at home however. It was nicer here in this smaller terminal and the natural wind blowing through. But going through security for the second time was heftier than he thought it would be. Perhaps it was only because he was disoriented, Godric supposed, hexing a security guard and pretending to have his identity processed, but perhaps it was that he was home after so many years. The fact that the country still stood after so many years… He could hardly comprehend it.

Making his way out of the small airport he stood at the road. The black tarmac led on into the countryside, but he could not walk along it, nor could he run across the field. Of course, he could Apparate… but in a place that seemed so full of Muggles now he decided against it. He had to go back in and ask the check in for a phone that he could use.

The man at the counter gave him a white landline. "May I know the telephone number?" The man asked, finger poised over the dials. Godric noted the tinge of his accent, but decided that he was too far behind the times again and gave the man the number. The man pressed, then Godric took the receiver and put it to his ear.

"Hello?" Asked a tired voice.

"Is that you, McKenzie?"

"It's Ryder," Said the voice on the phone as the line crackled. "What did you call for?"

"I need advice. Where's McKenzie?"

"She's in the shower of course, it's midnight here. Do you need her right now or can I answer for her?"

"You could answer," Godric said. "I only meant to ask if you knew how to get out from an airport into the country."

"OK, where are you?"

"Gloucestershire Airport."

"Alright, hold up." There was a crackle as Ryder put the phone down and Godric stood waiting for about a minute. Then suddenly: "So there are a couple of options. Number one is call a car service. Have you exchanged your money in America already?"

"I can exchange it now," Godric said, glancing at a sign that said EXCHANGE.

"NO, no, no! Never exchange at the airport."

"Why not?"

"Like I said, you would be wasting your money. I guess maybe you shouldn't call a taxi. Though I guess you can hitchhike."

"I can what?"

"She didn't tell you, did she?" Ryder asked. "Right listen here, this is more of a 'me' thing so McKenzie wouldn't tell you anything about this, but you still wanna know?"

"I'm all ears," Godric replied.

"Cool beans, but don't tell her I told you or I'm sleeping in the hallway tonight."

"Er, alright then."

"Right," Ryder said as if getting down to business, "All there is to it is going onto the road. Stick your thumb up in the direction you wanna go and wait for a car to stop by you, so it's either left or right. Oh, but make sure the car's travelling in the same direction you want to go; you know that, right?"

"Yes."  
"Hitchhiking's free usually," Ryder continued. "It's illegal around America in some places… Not sure about where you're at, but I think it's allowed. Don't get in one of those fishy looking cars by the way. Like, maybe you're a guy but I'd advise against it. Have you ever backpacked before?"

"Backpacked?" Godric asked.

"Yeah. Solo around the world, bit like a hobo. McKenzie ever think you were a backpacker?"

Godric rubbed his neck. "She never mentioned it."

"Ah whatever, gotta love her anyways." Ryder smiled, or at least Godric could sense it through his tone. "Well I should really go and check up on her, see if she hasn't drowned in the shower. You sure you know your way from there?"

"I've got a few coins."

"Great, good luck. I hope it goes well." There was a _click! _As Ryder hung up, and Godric gave the phone back to the man at the stall. "Excuse me," He said again to the man, "Which direction would Cheltenham be?"

"Well, it's only a five minute drive from here, sir, east from here."

Godric thanked him and set forth, exiting the terminal again and crossing the tarmac to walk alongside it on the meadow. When he had finally gotten a fair distance away he raised his thumb right, and after a few cars or trucks had passed by, soon enough a small red van with bright yellow words on the side reading ROYAL MAIL pulled up on the side of the road.

"Alright?" Said the driver, a slightly built balding man wearing a bright red jacket. "Where be to?"

"Cheltenham."

"Ah, Cheltenham is it? Well hop in the side then and I'll be able to drive you there. I'm on my way there myself. It's a short drive, only a few minutes down the road."

The truck door opened, and Godric got in. "Thank you," He said, as the driver revved the engine and the truck started along the road. The driver gave Godric a glance. "If you don't mind my asking, where is it you're from exactly?"

"Gloucestershire." Godric replied, pleased to be able to say the name aloud.

"Really? Strange. Well do pardon me for saying so, you don't sound very much like you're from here."

"Well, I've been living in America for a while now. Get away from the country and all, you know… stunning city," Godric said fondly.

"Aye, or so I hear. Too loud for the likes of me in any case, you know. Me, I'd much rather be spending my day at home with my wife."

So this wasn't going to be very much of an interesting person. Godric missed McKenzie already. Had she been in Hogwarts, he thought, she'd have been a Gryffindor straight away. The truck drove for a while up the green expanse of the countryside along village roads lined with small, orderly buildings. Aside from the clear fact that England by now had done away with wattle-and-daub and thatched straw roofs— replaced by small maroon bricks and dark tiles, it seemed that nothing else had changed at all around these parts.

"We're coming into Cheltenham now," The driver said after a bit once they had come into a road with a few fancier yellow buildings. "Where's it you'll be getting off?"

"Anytime. Now would be a good idea."

"Right then," Said the driver as the traffic light switched and he drove down a side-street. As they crossed over a stone bridge that led over a narrow brook in the countryside, they entered an old village where the cottages were made partially of wood and bushes of greenery could be seen almost everywhere between them. "Heart of the village, this place," Said the driver, "Shall I let you off here and you can make your own way home then?"

"Yes please, and thank you," Godric said, not wanting to disclose anything else, and as the driver pulled up at a curb he stepped out of the van and waved goodbye. The truck then drove away, disappearing behind a row of homely, look-alike cottages.

Godric made his way along the pavement, taking in the scene of the quaint little chocolate-box houses and the rise of a church spire above the rows of thatched roofs. Nobody was out in the afternoon, it being a quiet Monday morning, and Godric was reassured in the knowledge that this place had hardly changed. A metal sign lay at the corner of the street bearing the village's name, making him smile:

GODRIC'S HOLLOW

He felt a sense of nostalgia wash over him. As he wandered down the roads he peered fondly into the well-kept gardens of the people who lived in these timeless houses, looking around at the quaint heart of the village. It seemed to have hardly changed, even after so many years. He smiled.

In another row of cottages he came across a while later, there was one at the end of the road, half ruined with the roof and lower level blasted away, and the garden filled with weeds that had grown wildly over the kissing-gate. This house was not the one he had grown up in all those years ago of course— it would be gone with the olden days, but Godric gave it a long, solemn look, knowing what had happened here not too long ago.

The family's names would be at the church. He knew somehow out of instinct that the church would still be here, and taking the road known affectionately as Church Lane, as it had been called for far too many years, he saw that the route to the church was exactly the same as well. The only difference would be who lived in the houses that lined this road, for his friends too would be lost with the olden days.

St Jerome's Church had been renovated to stone. He entered into the graveyard, scanning the rows and their listed names. There was one with a mark on it that he recognized, and he leaned closer to see the much-eroded name on the tombstone.

IGNOTUS PEVERELL

So he was gone too. Godric knew of course, but his heart did not seem to agree. He brushed the grave gently with his palm and said a small word under his breath. Ignotus Peverell however, would never know he had a visitor.

There were more graves with people who's names he did not know in life, but had heard of and acknowledged. A luminescent white tomb caught his eye in particular, and seeing the names written there he stopped to murmur a small prayer under his breath for them too. It was all he could do: this generation of the Potters had never known him save for in myth and legend, but he felt a sort of gratitude to them, and for their living descendants. But there was one family that he had come chiefly for, and he knew that this would be their resting place. Wandering to the far end of the church to where the older names were, he was seized by a haunting doubt that after all these years, they were not still there in the grass.

He took to reading each grave apprehensively, but soon he happened upon a plot marked by a flat grey stone set into the ground with names so worn he could hardly tell who was buried there. They were only just legible:

AUDACIA, EX NERUO, EX VETERUM VIRTUSQUE

IN MEMORIAM:

GAREN GRYFFINDOR

923 - 962

SIR GODFREY GRYFFINDOR

947 – 1002

GODWIN GRYFFINDOR

971 - 1031

GERDA GRYFFINDOR

968 – 1043

And the faintest of them all, inscribed in a simple, but somehow chilling hand:

GODRIC GRYFFINDOR

997 – 1042

He hadn't been placed there, he knew, not in the grounds of his old home but far away from it, but suddenly he felt as if he had done something morally incomprehensible. He stepped away with the feeling that he had seen something he was not supposed to see, feeling now that he had gone too far in coming here.

Stumbling slightly through the grass he made his way around back to the church and pushed open the heavy wooden double doors. It was a church with an arched ceiling and a stained-glass window at the back, a cross above the altar at the front. Rows of wooden pews led up to it. All was quiet here, and Godric sheltered here, closing his eyes and regaining his nerve.

It was time to go back.

He took in a deep breath again and put his hands to his sides. Spinning on his heel, he heard a _crack! _That echoed in the empty hall of the church, and understood now at least that some things were better left untouched.

-PART ELEVEN-

_The Shore Again_

Godric felt weightless, as if he were drifting in the dark depths of the sea. His mind was disorientated, not knowing or caring which direction the surface was. It felt as if he would float here lifeless forever, but then suddenly he felt his limp body being pushed up by some invisible force, as if the sea itself were propelling him out of the water, and as a great rushing torrent in his ears roared then died away he felt himself pushed gently onto a shore, feeling warm sand against his cheek.

"Ah hah," Someone said suddenly, and he blinked.

"Our rag doll has washed up on us, I see. I hope you recognize me, old chap," Salazar Slytherin said as he slowly sat up. "We've been waiting for you to find your way back here, haven't we Helga?"

"What time…?"

"None of us know that anyhow, Godric dear," Came a firm woman's voice. "You've certainly got a lot to tell. Goodness knows what you've gone and done…"

"Helga…"

"Oh good, you recognize me. Now get up, we can't have you lying here forever."

"Where's Rowena?"

"She's in the bothy, if you're wondering. Now get yourself up and I'll make you a meal of sorts. We can hear about all your adventures in a bit."

As they followed her back to the sea-weathered grey sea cliff and up the steps embedded there in the side, Helga tutted about their clothing amidst the rush of waves and wind.

"…Don't understand why it shouldn't be the way it is," She was saying to Salazar, giving disapproving glances all the while at his newly brill-creamed dark hair. "I mean, that shirt and trousers look very nice and all, but the hair! Now, that's something I don't quite understand…"

"What's wrong with it?"

"My point exactly! Why can't you keep it like it is? And as for Godric, I must say that cut suits him better—"

"—Why thank you,"

"—But those trousers! Blue indeed! And goodness, all the tartan!"

"They're jeans, And it was hardly for Scotland at all—"

"—Well, well! We'll say what Rowena says about it when she comes along… Don't know what on earth they were thinking… fashion, apparently… hm!"

When night fell, they were all sat around the peat fire like they had always done in the Old Times. Salazar had reverted to his old green robes, but he had kept his hair slicked down, and it gleamed with brill cream in the firelight. Godric was still dressed in the clothes McKenzie had given him, picking away at a guitar and singing.

"_Oh you'll take the high road and I'll take the low…"_

"It's a fine story you've told us," Rowena said sleepily, her head resting on Godric's shoulder.

"Hm, indeed it seemed that way to me."

"If you were given the chance, would you do it again?"

He plucked a string. "There are some things best left alone."

Godric looked at Rowena's head on his shoulder, her face quiet in the firelight. Across from him, Helga had drifted off, and Salazar was staring into the flames deep in thought, his green eyes flickering. Godric noticed that he wore a ring of the Celtic knot on his finger, burnished silver in the golden light. Of course; he always wore it on one of these days, and it was Samhain. The Pagan festival of harvest, when the ghosts of time walked the earth.

And that was who they were meant to be, Godric thought. Lost to time as the world went on. The legacy they had left on earth would remain, but they would remain as relics of the past for all the days of the world, until the end of time.


End file.
